I Spy a Family
by Mandelene
Summary: Agent Kirkland and Agent Bonnefoy are just trying to do their jobs, so what happens when they're assigned to work on a case with a pair of twin boys? It's an adventure they won't soon forget.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! This is a fill for a request submitted to me over Tumblr by a lovely anon. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

There's always one case in an agent's career that either makes or breaks them. For Arthur, this is that case.

He's called into his supervisor's office, where he sits in a lumpy, padded chair, waiting to be given his new assignment. And well, if he had known then how the events of the following week would unfold, he would have gotten up, walked straight out of that office, and demanded to be given a different mission, but alas...

"We are tracking the movements of two whistleblowers by the names of Feliciano and Lovino Vargas. According to the airline we've contacted, they're scheduled to stay at a hotel in Orlando, Florida for the week, but before we arrest them, we'd like you to go in and gather as much information as possible about their source for the NATO secrets they've been divulging."

At first, it seems simple enough: go to Orlando, snoop around a bit, and call in for backup when there isn't any info left to be attained so that the Vargas brothers can be arrested.

"The only problem is the hotel they'll be staying at is a family resort, and we can't exactly send you in alone and raise suspicion. As such, you'll be working with Agent Bonnefoy—"

"No," Arthur interrupts before he can think to do otherwise. "Anyone but Bonnefoy."

His supervisor, unfazed, pointedly ignores him. "The same Agent Bonnefoy who, if I may remind you, is a capable and experienced agent such as yourself. We would not have assigned him to this mission had he not had the proper qualifications."

Fantastic. Arthur is quite familiar with Bonnefoy's work, and he's been around him long enough to know that he wants nothing to do with the irritating Frenchman. For starters, he always manages to get in the way of absolutely everything, and yet he's somehow under the impression that he's better than everyone else simply because he saved the Canadian prime minister's life _once_.

"You'll also be taking two young boys with you. A foster home we're helping to fund decided to lend them to us for the purpose of this case."

He doesn't like the sound of this. Doesn't like the sound of it _at all_.

"How young?"

"They're both aged seven, if I'm not mistaken. They're twin brothers—sweet children. I'm sure they'll be wonderful. With their help, you'll paint the impression of being a new age, modern family. Let's see if I can introduce them to you now. They should be around here somewhere. Give me one moment."

His supervisor steps out, and Arthur takes the chance to release a heavy sigh. He'd have to be mad to agree to something like this, but he wouldn't mind a promotion, and then he'd be able to show Bonnefoy who's actually the qualified one around here.

He dislikes children—there's a reason he's never had any of his own—but how hard could it be to look after a pair of brats for a week? They can't be much worse than Bonnefoy, can they?

The door to the office creaks open again, and his supervisor walks in with two golden-haired boys with matching ocean blue eyes lagging behind him. They look innocent enough, but looks can be deceiving.

"Agent Kirkland, meet Alfred and Matthew," his supervisor says, flourishing a hand at the children theatrically. "Or, should I say, meet your new sons."

The more boisterous one of the two, Alfred, flashes him a pearly grin and says, "You have bushy eyebrows! Can I touch them?"

Lord, have mercy.

His supervisor laughs and pats Alfred on the head warmly, seemingly finding pleasure in Arthur's pain. "Your flight leaves tomorrow morning."

* * *

Coping with having to cohabitate a cab with a Frenchman and two whiny younglings is the equivalent of slowly burning in the pits of hell. Three hours into this mission and Arthur already knows he's in for a heck of a ride. Matthew is currently car sick, Alfred won't stop running his mouth and talking a mile a minute, and Francis is just his usual, uncompanionable self.

"Hey, Arthur, you wanna see what I can do with my bubblegum?" Alfred asks, and Arthur is beginning to wonder if the reason Alfred is so chatty is because he'll drop dead the moment he even attempts to close his mouth. It seems to be a logical explanation at first.

"No, let's review what you need to remember again."

"But we've already gone through it five times."

"Then, we'll do it five more times until you get it right."

The boy gives him a baleful look and groans. "I'm Alfred F. Jones. I was born in Boston, Massachussetts. I'm seven years old. You're my dad, Arthur Kirkland from Essex, England. Francis Bonnefoy is my papa, and he's from Marseille, France. You guys adopted Mattie and me when we were three. We're on summer vacation now, and we're going to the waterpark resort in Orlando, Florida... Are we going to get to go to Disney World for real?"

Arthur scowls. The last thing he needs is to be exposed to even more brats at an amusement park. "No."

"Aww! Why not?"

"Because I said so."

Francis smirks at him from the backseat. "Ah, Arthur, it is so nice to be working with you again. I have missed your short-temper."

"Shut it, frog."

"U-Uhmm, excuse me? My stomach doesn't feel good," Matthew suddenly whispers, his head leaning tiredly against the window. "Are we almost there?"

"It's not far now," Francis assures the boy, tone softening. He seems to be quite a bit more tolerant of the children. "Look, I can see the airport from here."

And thank goodness for that. Once they get on the plane, Arthur plans to ignore everyone and everything until they land. He didn't sign up to be a babysitter. He's simply supposed to do his job—business as usual and nothing else.

Their driver drops them off in a nearby parking lot, and the poorly construed 'family' gets out of the car and grabs their luggage. They check-in and go through security smoothly and quickly, which is one of the perks of working for an intelligence service. Then, it's just a matter of waiting to be called to their gate for departure. They find a seating area, stretch and rest their legs, and—

Wait.

Arthur takes a good look around him and sees Francis and Matthew talking about the stuffed polar-bear in Matthew's carry-on bag that he doesn't like to travel without, but… Damn it!

"Where's Alfred?" he asks through gritted teeth. The first day of their trip and they've already lost a child. Oh, well, they can complete the mission with just one boy, can't they?

Francis frowns and glares at him accusingly. "You were supposed to be watching him! We agreed back at headquarters that I would take care of Matthew and you would take care of Alfred."

Yes, he remembers that conversation now, but he didn't expect the boy to just wander off! Why would he do such a thing anyway?

He growls under his breath, drops his own carry-on bag, and storms off in the direction from which they came, ravenously searching for a dark-blond head of hair perched atop a four foot tall figure.

* * *

The blue dinosaur is on the top shelf, but he can't reach it even when he stands on his tippy-toes. Why put the best toys so high up? It's unfair!

Alfred ponders the scene for a moment, considering his options. He could stack up the boxes containing action-figures—he'd need maybe about five or six of them, and then he could reach for sure. He checks to make sure the cashier at the front of the shop isn't watching and gets to work, carefully balancing each box with great care before climbing up as quietly as possible, arm stretching out to its full elasticity. He snags the dinosaur by the snout, but his back foot slips just as he does so, and he goes toppling backward.

He waits for the inevitable pain to come from colliding with the floor and possibly hitting his head on one of the metal shelves, but instead, he finds himself curled up in someone's strong arms. He dares to open his eyes, startled.

An angry green stare comes into his view, and Alfred turns red with shame, knowing he's in for a good scolding.

"What were you doing? I've been looking for you all over the bleeding airport! I thought you'd been abducted!" Arthur shouts down at him, hands clasped in a vice-grip around his torso. "How idiotic of you!"

He bursts into tears without his volition, and he's not sure why. Maybe it's because he can't remember the last time an adult cared enough to yell at him like this, and he hasn't been held in years so it's overwhelming. "I-I'm sorry!"

Arthur stiffens, and Alfred can feel the difference in his posture. The man sets him down on the ground so he can right himself, but Alfred wishes he didn't have to let go so soon.

"Stop crying. There's nothing to cry about," Arthur huffs, not sounding quite as upset anymore. "Come, before we miss our flight."

But Alfred can't see straight through all of his tears, and he stumbles over a stray box, only for Arthur to break his fall once again.

"My, you're clumsy, aren't you?" Arthur sighs, fumbling for something in his pockets. He pulls out a handkerchief and presses it into Alfred's hands. "Wipe your face, and let's go."

Alfred runs the soft fabric over his eyes and sniffles wetly, already making his way for the exit. He stops, however, when he notices that Arthur isn't following.

The man blinks thoughtfully at the blue dinosaur Alfred had been trying to reach for and plucks it off the shelf with ease, examining it. "Is this what you were after?"

Alfred nods and opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur is already at the register, taking out his wallet and paying for the toy.

* * *

"Ugh, why'd you choose Bulbasaur? Nobody chooses him."

"But I like Bulbasaur," Matthew insists, playing one of the video games the boys had been gifted at headquarters to keep them busy during their journey. "He's like a big cabbage."

"You hate cabbage."

"I hate _eating_ cabbage. It's different. I'm not going to eat my Bulbasaur."

"Whatever," Alfred says, rolling his eyes as he watches Matthew play. He looks to his right to see what Francis and Arthur are doing, but they're being boring as usual. Arthur's reading a newspaper, and Francis is talking to one of the flight attendants.

He's got his blue dinosaur in his lap because Arthur said he could keep it with him on the plane so long as he promised to behave, and he's been extra good in the past few hours. He hasn't gotten into a fight with Mattie, hasn't bitten his fingernails, remembered to say 'please' and 'thank-you' when a nice lady gave him a tray of food, and even though he accidentally dropped a piece of chicken while eating and made a mess, Arthur just shook his head and cleaned it up without yelling at him.

Arthur and Francis aren't such bad guys. Mattie seems to like Francis a lot, and he supposes that if his brother is okay with him, then he should accept him, too. Arthur, on the other hand, is a completely different story. He always looks like something's bothering him, and Alfred can't figure out what it is. He can be nice every now and then, but Mattie still seems to be scared of him. Maybe he just needs a friend.

Being on an airplane isn't as much fun as he thought it would be. Most of the flight consists of staying seated when all Alfred really wants to do is run up and down the aisles and open a window so he can see what it's like to be hovering above the world with the wind rushing past his face, but Arthur says that's not how planes work. What a letdown. Whoever invented the contemporary commercial airplane didn't know what he/she was doing.

"We'll be landing soon," Francis says, eyes falling to Alfred's blue dinosaur with a knowing smile.

"Okay, but I have to pee."

Arthur scrunches his nose up at that and looks funny. "What you mean is that you need to go to the bathroom."

"Yeah," Alfred agrees, not sure why he's being corrected. What's wrong with saying you have to pee? Everybody does it.

Francis puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him to where the bathroom is, still smiling. When they are far enough away from Arthur and Matthew, Alfred decides he might as well ask the question that's been on his mind ever since he got into the cab this morning.

"Fran—I mean—Papa, why doesn't Arth—Dad like me?"

"He doesn't like anyone," Francis jokes, ruffling his hair. "I think you are the first person to ever get him to reveal that he has an actual heart," he adds, pointing to the dinosaur cuddled beneath Alfred's arm.

"But he likes you," Alfred argues.

"You think so?"

"Yeah."

"Ahh, I will have to trust your word, I suppose. Hurry now. We have to get back to our seats."

A quick bathroom break and twenty minutes later, their plane makes a safe and speedy landing, rubber greeting tarmac. However, there's still some traveling left to do because after they go through baggage claim, they have to take another cab to their hotel, by which point Alfred is fairly sure he's close to dying of ennui.

But being in the presence of his brother and his temporary 'fathers' makes everything somewhat better. Even though Alfred knows they're only pretending to be a family, it's not so hard to imagine that it's not fake. If he closes his eyes and thinks about it long enough, he can make himself believe that he's on an actual vacation with his actual parents, and there's a happiness in his gut that he can't explain.

And when they finally do arrive to the hotel, wow is it worth the wait. The place is massive. It's brightly lit against the backdrop of the setting sun, and you can hear the cheerful cries of glee coming from the gated outdoor pool and waterpark. The floor of the lobby is so shiny Alfred can see his reflection in it, and the front desk is made of a beautiful, smooth marble that makes him feel super fancy and posh. He's never been to a hotel of this type—or any hotel for that matter.

Francis checks them in, and then Arthur leads them into a silver-slick elevator. They're staying on the twelfth floor in room 124, which is a standard suite with two double beds and a little flat-screen television tucked against opposite walls. There's also a small table and an armchair by the window.

The accommodations are great for real families. Not so much for fake families. This becomes clear when sleeping arrangements come into question.

"I'm not sleeping with you," Arthur tells Francis almost immediately when he sees the two beds. "I'd rather sleep in the armchair."

"Don't be silly, _mon cher_. You'll strain your back, and then I'll have to listen to you complain about it for the entire week," Francis retorts, setting his suitcase down by the window.

"Don't call me that, and I'll sleep wherever I please."

"Fine, sleep with one of the boys then."

"I think not."

"You don't have any other choice."

"I'll share with Matthew then," Arthur declares, crossing his arms.

But from the expression on Matthew's face, it's clear that he's not very enthusiastic about the idea.

"I'll share with Matthew. You share with Alfred," Francis suggests.

As a word of warning, Alfred cautions, "I talk in my sleep and kick a lot."

Arthur purses his lips and turns to him, scanning his seven-year-old form critically. He glances at the armchair longingly and then back to one of the double beds, grimacing. "Wonderful. That's settled then. We'll gag the boy and tie his legs together before turning in."

Francis barks with laughter and shakes his head, but Alfred isn't quite as amused.

"Really?" Alfred asks, worried.

"No," Arthur admits with a dark smirk, already beginning to unpack his belongings. "But I can still change my mind."

It's an empty threat. Alfred is beginning to understand the man's droll sense of humor, and before he can help it, he smirks, too.

* * *

"What would they be doing _here_ , of all places? This isn't exactly the ideal hiding spot for trading government secrets."

"Maybe that's exactly why they're doing it here," Francis remarks, concentrated on something on his computer screen.

"Can we go to the pool?"

"Not now, Alfred," Arthur murmurs, scribbling down a few notes. "The sun is almost down anyway."

"But the indoor pool is open until nine o'clock. I checked."

"Francis and I are busy at the moment, as you can see."

"But Mattie wants to go, too."

Arthur grumbles under his breath and pinches his nose. "We're not here to entertain you. We have serious work to do."

"Come on, _please_? Not even just for an hour?"

"If you don't stop pestering us _this_ second—"

"This is so dumb, and—and I hate it here!"

At wit's end, Arthur tosses his pen aside, stands up, and snatches Alfred by the wrist, causing the boy to flinch. "That's _enough_. One more word out of you, and we'll send you back to the foster home. Is that what you want?"

Alfred's bottom lip quivers as he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. A fake family is still better than none at all.

"Then behave yourself," Arthur snarls, dragging Alfred over to the armchair near the window. "Sit here and don't move."

And then, it's silent aside from Francis typing at his keyboard. He looks like he wants to say something, but, in the end, he keeps his thoughts to himself and goes right back to work, trying not to notice the pout on Alfred's face.

Alfred's not sure how long he stays sitting in the chair, but it must be at least an hour—much longer than a normal time-out should be. Matthew looks at him dolefully every now and then and almost considers asking Arthur and Francis if Alfred can leave the chair, but he's concerned that he'll get in trouble, too, and somehow make things worse.

Eventually, Alfred falls asleep, and he doesn't wake until he feels a pair of arms snaking around him and lifting him up. He catches a few exchanged whispers.

"—too hard on him. He's just a child."

"I may have lost my temper…. I-I apologize."

"Don't apologize to me. You can take the children to the pool tomorrow."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Because someone has to keep watch, and you were the one who punished the boy so harshly."

"Poor boy? He's a menace."

"Oh, Arthur… Put him down carefully. Don't wake him. He's been through enough, don't make things harder on him."

Alfred groans as his body sinks into the bed and the arms leave him.

"See you in the morning."

" _Bon nuit_."


	2. Chapter 2

One sheep, two sheep, three sheep.

This isn't helping.

Arthur's a light sleeper even on his good nights, and he's notorious for being quite the insomniac. Even so, sleep usually does come to him with enough patience, so long as he doesn't have a seven-year-old child thrashing about in the sheets next to him, apparently.

He tries to be understanding, truly, but his already thin tolerance for children is crumbling even further, and he's just about ready to scream. How can the child be such a fitful sleeper?

He glances at the clock on the nightstand and glowers. It's four in the morning.

"Don't," Alfred mumbles in a dream-softened tone, eyes squeezed shut. "I promise I won't… Sorry… Don't… Please."

Arthur raises himself up with one elbow and studies the boy's face, intrigued. Should he wake him? He'd read somewhere that it isn't right to shake someone out of a nightmare, but this has been going on for hours.

"Let me go," Alfred groans groggily before kicking one of his legs out and hitting Arthur in the knee. It doesn't hurt, but Arthur flinches in surprise. He can't watch this go on—it's distressing for him, too, although he can't explain why.

"Alfred… Alfred, wake up."

"Mmrugh…"

"Come on, now."

Francis and Matthew are both in a deep sleep on the queen-sized bed across the room, unbothered by the noise, and Arthur is envious of them.

"Ugh," Alfred continues to complain as his eyes flutter open, blond lashes gently peeling away from his bottom lids. "What—?"

Arthur frowns at him. "You were having a nightmare."

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't apologize. Does this happen often?"

"Kinda, but I'm used to it."

Arthur sighs. This isn't his problem, and he shouldn't be getting involved. He's not going to get any sleep tonight anyway.

"Did I wake you up?" Alfred asks, voice laden with regret.

"No," Arthur lies. "I wasn't able to sleep anyway."

"Oh, okay. How come you can't sleep?"

Because I'm allergic to brats such as yourself, Arthur thinks gruffly. "Ahh, too much stress, I suppose."

"Why're you stressed?"

"I won't bore you with the details."

"Tell me," Alfred insists, sounding rather mature for his age.

"This case is simply getting to my head, is all. Go back to sleep."

"When I can't sleep, I think about things that make me happy," Alfred explains, leaning back into his pillow. "Like when I play basketball with Mattie."

Arthur's not sure why the boy is telling him this. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to wake him after all.

Alfred snuggles his blue dinosaur, senses Arthur isn't up for a talk, and says, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

As Arthur watches the boy drift off again, he can't help but feel a little protective for some reason, and so, he pulls up the duvet to Alfred's neck to make sure the boy doesn't catch a chill—the blasted air conditioning in here is too strong—and goes back to staring at the ceiling and counting sheep.

* * *

"Arthur, you look awful," is the first thing Francis says in the morning.

"You don't say?"

"Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

Francis clicks his tongue, bothered by this news. "You're going to be impossible to work with today."

"Oh, I'm the impossible one?" Arthur asks with an unconcealed, giant yawn.

"I slept like a baby," Francis gloats as he gets up out of bed and stretches his legs. "We have a complimentary breakfast waiting for us in the hotel's restaurant downstairs, but it's only offered until nine o'clock, so we have to hurry."

Alfred pops his head out of his fortress of pillows at that. "Breakfast? Woo! Hurry and get dressed, Mattie!"

From the opposite bed, Matthew rubs his eyes cutely, sniffs, and wipes a hand over his face. "Wait for me."

But their first attempt at getting ready for the upcoming day commences on a rocky start. Francis can't find his room key, even though he insists he left it on the table last night. He goes on a wild search for it for twenty minutes, only to discover he'd actually left it in the pocket of his slacks.

When they do eventually make it to the restaurant on the second floor, Alfred goes missing again. Arthur finds him lurking about in a lounge room with the help of the hotel's security, and then they're finally able to find their seats for breakfast.

"Coffee or juice?" their waitress asks, a pleasant, young woman with an early-bird attitude.

Arthur isn't sure he's able to form coherent sentences at the moment, and so, Francis does most of the talking.

"Juice for the boys, coffee for me, and tea for the grouchy Englishman next to me," Francis says, flashing the woman a smile.

She laughs, amused. "Coming right up."

The waitress leaves, and Arthur tries to shield his eyes from the harsh sunlight coming in through the windows while Alfred and Matthew challenge each other to a thumb war. He's already got a pounding migraine, and he would gladly go back to bed if time permitted.

"Oh, Arthur, what's wrong?" Francis asks teasingly, touching his shoulder. "Tired of being a father already?"

"Shut up."

"Don't be so rude in front of the children. Pull yourself together. The day is still young."

Matthew wins the thumb war, and Arthur tries his best to act like a fully functioning human being, but it's a large request to make of him.

A moment later, the waitress returns with their drinks. "Now, what can I get started for you guys?"

Francis glances at the menu, finds the first thing that catches his eyes, and says, "I'll have the Belgian waffles and some eggs."

"Poached or scrambled?"

"Poached."

The waitress scribbles on her notepad and nods before turning to Arthur. "And for you, sir?"

Arthur doesn't think he'll be able to stomach anything at the moment, given his headache, but he wants to at least make an effort to consume some calories before he has to deal with Francis's presence for the course of yet another day. "Oatmeal, please."

The woman nods again, and shifts her attention to the boys with a wide smile. "And what would you sweethearts like?"

Matthew bites his bottom lip and shrinks in his seat, timid as always. "Papa, can I get pancakes?" he asks, just to be sure he has the man's approval.

"Of course, _mon lapin_."

"Okay, I'll have pancakes, then."

"And I'll have the same thing!" Alfred exclaims, returning the smile. "Oh, and bacon!"

Arthur shakes his head and intervenes. "No, no bacon."

"Aww, why not?"

"It's too greasy, and the last thing I need is for you to start whining about an upset stomach."

"Fine," Alfred surrenders, making sure to drop his smile into a frown. The waitress gives him a sympathetic look before she goes off once more. "It's not fair."

"What was that?" Arthur asks rhetorically, stern.

"Nothing."

"Good."

Francis rolls his eyes at both of them. Their food doesn't take long to arrive, and they dig in, ending up comfortably quenched by the time they're finished. The cost of the meal is covered by the agency, and so, when the waitress does her rounds for the final time, they leave her a generous tip and thank her before rising from their seats.

"I'd just like to say you have a beautiful family," she says to Francis and Arthur, eyes shimmering. "It was a treat to be your server."

Arthur is the first one to turn red with embarrassment, and Francis follows, except his blush isn't quite as obvious.

" _Merci beaucoup_ , dear," Francis replies, recovering well, and then, they go their separate ways.

They decide they'll relax in the hotel room for an hour, and afterwards, Arthur will take the boys to the pool, as promised.

But first…

"I need to run a quick errand," Arthur states as they're walking out of the restaurant. He's feeling a little better after having his tea, but it's clear one wrong movement or word might set him off.

Francis narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. "What kind of errand?"

"Must you know everything? I'll be back in thirty minutes. Will you be all right watching the boys on your own?"

"I'm not the one who has lost my child yet."

Arthur takes that as a yes and heads off, dead-set on a serious mission. If they're all going to make it through this trip, there's something they'll desperately need, and Arthur knows exactly where to get it.

* * *

"You bought the boy a leash? He's not a dog!"

"No, a dog is capable of being more obedient," Arthur agrees, though not for the right reasons. He swoops down and pulls the harness over Alfred's head and clasps the child-safe buckle closed before the boy realizes what he's up to. "At least now he'll be within our sights at all times."

Francis, completely disgusted by the idea, watches with a glower as Alfred stomps around in a circle and tries to free himself. The boy tries to make a run for it, but Arthur holds onto the leash tightly and pulls him back, quite pleased with the results.

"See? It works flawlessly," he says.

"Arthur, this is ridiculous."

"It's not. It's also for his safety. If the Vargas brothers find out who we are, and Alfred wanders off again, we're going to have a problem."

Alfred, meanwhile, throws a temper tantrum. He's already dressed in his swimming trunks and doused in sunscreen, ready for the pool. "I don't want to be on a leash!"

"Well, there's nothing I can do about that," Arthur huffs, giving the boy another firm glare. "Now, let's get going."

Francis wants to argue some more, but they really are running short on time, and the sooner Arthur takes the boys out, the sooner he'll be able to get to work without any distractions. "Call me if anything comes up."

"Make sure your phone isn't on silent, frog," Arthur adds before gesturing for the boys to follow him. "We'll be in touch."

Alfred continues to whine and demand his freedom, but Arthur manages to ignore him, even as the boy makes a scene in the elevator and garners the attention of a few passersby. And while Matthew should be defending his brother, he seems to find all of the madness quite funny, and decides not to get involved.

Arthur finds himself a nice beach chair to lounge on beside the pool and perches himself upon it with a heavy sigh, blinking against the drowsiness he feels because of the warmth of the Florida sun on his face. He tells Matthew and Alfred to stay in the shallow end of the pool, and reluctantly unclasps Alfred from the leash so he can go and swim.

"Aren't you going to swim with us?" Alfred asks, considerably calmer after his previous fit, even though his eyes are still a little puffy from the aftermath.

"I'd rather not."

"Please?"

Arthur groans. "Maybe later."

Alfred accepts his answer and sprints off with Matthew.

"Don't run!" Arthur scolds them, but they're too far away to hear him. He leans back, rests his eyes for a moment, sunglasses sitting on his nose. It's sizzling hot out, and Arthur hopes he won't have to endure the heat for too long before the boys tire themselves out.

Every few minutes, he looks over to where the boys are playing, and thus far, they're well behaved, although he catches Alfred splashing water at Matthew's face at one point and has to reprimand him.

He tries his hardest to not fall asleep, and he achieves that by people-watching from behind his dark shades. Most of the people around are with their families, as expected, and about an hour after his arrival, a group of mothers arrive with their children and sit in the chairs next to him, prattling on about little Timmy's upcoming birthday party and some other nonsense Arthur doesn't wish to hear. He's been trained to deal with various forms of torture, but nothing could have prepared him for the ramblings of three middle-aged women.

"Diane's daughter just started the sixth grade! Can you believe it? They grow up so fast," one of the women cries, and Arthur makes a mental note to purchase some earplugs in the near future.

It's then that two heads of almond hair catch his focus, and he picks up his cellphone.

"Francis, I see our two Italian friends," he whispers when he hears the other line come to life. "They just came into the pool area. They're arguing, I think."

He hears some papers shuffle, and then Francis's voice meets his ears. "Can you make out what they're saying?"

"They're too far away."

"Can you get closer to them?"

"I can try," Arthur murmurs back, standing from his beach chair and putting on his sandals. If he makes his way over to the station where extra towels are being distributed, he should be close enough to catch at least a few words. He puts his plan into action, and makes it halfway before he's forced to stop.

"Dad!" someone screams, and he swivels around on his heel to see where the noise is coming from.

There's a small waterslide that coils into the deep-end of the pool, and even though they know they're not allowed to go off so far, Alfred and Matthew have done so anyway and have somehow managed to sneak past him. Honestly, how is it that two little boys are able to outwit him, a federal agent, without getting caught? He feels personally offended by this.

But he can be furious later. Right now, his attention is solely on the small figure bobbing in and out of the water, flailing about.

"Mattie's drowning!" Alfred shouts, clinging to one of the edges of the pool to keep himself from sinking as well.

Arthur's certain his heart stops in that moment. He completely forgets about the Vargas brothers, kicks his sandals off of his feet, drops his cellphone, yanks off his shirt, and dives into the pool in the blink of an eye. He's only realized now that there isn't a lifeguard on duty, and so, he must be the one to lift Matthew out of the water and bring him over to safety. He tucks the boy against his chest when he reaches him, and guides them over to the ladder a few meters away, blood cold in his veins.

The middle aged mothers are there to take Matthew out of his arms and sit him on dry land again as he climbs out of the water, sopping wet and shaking from the fear the boy has caused him. Thankfully, Matthew is breathing, although he has swallowed a few mouthfuls of chlorinated water. He coughs hard and tears spring to his eyes while Arthur rubs circles into his back and tries to get his own breathing under control.

"It's all right now, lad," Arthur soothes him, and one of the nearby mothers wraps a towel around the little one's shoulders. "There, there… Shh…"

Matthew hiccups, but he is, thank goodness, unharmed albeit shaken up. Arthur helps him stand and leads him over to his abandoned beach chair.

"Rest here, and we'll go back to the hotel room in a minute, okay?" he instructs before remembering to go over to pick up his phone, through which a frantic Francis is shouting.

"Arthur! Arthur, is everything all right?" the Frenchman asks.

"I'll explain later," he sighs in response. The Vargas brothers are gone now. They must've wandered off into the lobby.

"Dad! I'm stuck!"

He whips his head to the side and finds Alfred still clinging to the edge of the pool for dear life, thoroughly frightened and pale. Arthur speed-walks over to him and frowns.

"I told you and your brother to stay out of the deep-end, and look what happened!"

"I'm sorry! Help, I can't climb up," Alfred begs, sounding genuinely apologetic.

Arthur crouches down, snakes his arms under Alfred's armpits, and hefts him up and out of the pool, holding the soggy boy up with an impressive scowl.

"I knew I shouldn't have taken you off your leash."

* * *

Francis can't stop fussing over Matthew when he sees the state he's in. "The poor child! I'm not leaving him in your care ever again," he says bitingly at Arthur before wrapping his dear Matthew in a warm, calming hug. "Thank goodness it wasn't worse."

"If he hadn't deliberately disobeyed me, this would never have happened."

"Don't talk about that now! It's too soon!"

Arthur shakes his head and decides there's no way he can win this battle. Not only did Matthew have a near-death experience, but they've also failed to get important information from Lovino and Feliciano Vargas. All of this time wasted, and still they haven't made any groundbreaking progress, or so Arthur thinks until…

"I've bugged their room," Francis reveals. "When you told me they were at the pool, I managed to break in when the housekeeper left their door momentarily open to go off and get them some more ice. We should be able to track everyone they speak to from now on."

Well, it looks like they're not as bad off as he thought, then. He allows himself a breath of relief. There's a silver-lining to this disaster after all.

Francis brushes back Matthew's hair and says, "Now, all we have to do is wait, and I know a way to kill time. I've been doing my research, and the hotel has a play-center for the boys. We can drop them off there and possibly check out the spa."

"You go on ahead," Arthur replies with a grimace. "That doesn't sound like something that would interest me."

"Arthur, if there's anyone who is in desperate need of a spa treatment, it's you. I can tell your headache hasn't gone away yet, and now that we have time to unwind, why not give it a try?"

He _really_ doesn't like the sound of this, but if it'll help with his incessant migraine, then he'll do it. Once Matthew feels a little better, they follow through with Francis's scheme and send the boys off to play, earning themselves a break from child rearing for a bit.

Arthur reluctantly follows Francis into the spa, and they're ushered by a member of the staff to enter a locker room, deposit their things, and change into some bathrobes. Francis is far more enthusiastic about the whole ordeal while Arthur sulks and wonders if there's a way to back out of this now.

"You're the only person in the world who could be _more_ stressed from being in a spa," Francis chuckles at him.

Another staff member approaches them, and after sitting in some lumpy chairs, they get some green goo slapped onto their faces to exfoliate their pores. It dries and hardens before it's wiped off, and then Arthur is led into a separate room and is told to lie down on a table and wait for the masseuse.

A massage sounds heavenly right about now, and Arthur lies prone on the table as ordered and waits, a towel tied around his waist. It's been officially over a day since he's last slept, and as he keeps waiting and waiting, he finally feels his eyes slip shut against his will, and he dozes off right then and there, exhausted.

He jolts awake when someone touches his back, and it takes him a few seconds for him to remember where he is. His headache is still knocking against his skull with a dull ache, and the smell of some essential oils fills his nose and overwhelms his senses—lavender, it would seem.

A hand kneads at his left shoulder, and he lets out a sharp cry of pain, never realizing how tender his muscles were in that spot.

"Relax," a voice says, and Arthur swears it's…

"Francis!" he growls, trying to sit up, but then an elbow buries itself into the small of his back, and he lets out a low groan at how good it feels. "What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I asked for permission from the staff, don't worry," Francis coos back at him tantalizingly. "I couldn't trust anyone here. For all we know, they could be working with the Vargas brothers, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't get your massage."

"I'm going to kill you."

"No, you won't."

"Would you like to find out?"

Francis laughs loftily and works on one of Arthur's more prominent knots as payback, eliciting another yelp of pain from the man. "Just hold still."

"Francis, this is inappropriate on so many levels."

"And who's going to find out?"

"That's not the point."

Francis kneads the back of his neck, easing the worst of his headache. "Just a few minutes, and I'll let you go. Please, you're one big, tangled knot, and I can't let you continue like this out of good conscience."

Arthur can't find the will to keep resisting, and so, he lies there like a ragdoll, slipping into a power nap once more before Francis tires of him and lets him up. Eyes glazed over with sleep, he blinks at Francis and sees his startlingly bright grin. They're both a little flushed from the heat in the room, and Arthur quickly gets up in disbelief, stunned by everything.

"All better?" Francis asks, and Arthur swallows thickly, taken aback. Why does Francis keep looking at him like that?

"I-I'll go and pick up the boys."

And Arthur rushes out, feeling oddly feverish.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Hi, everyone! Sorry for the late update, but I've been back in school over the past few weeks, and I haven't gotten used to my schedule yet, so my writing routine is a little crazy right now, but I'm starting to sort it out. Expect more frequent updates from now on! :) Thanks for your patience!

* * *

"Did you boys have a nice time playing with the other children?" Arthur asks as he picks the twins up from their impromptu stay at the hotel's daycare.

Alfred huffs and narrows his eyes into a scowl—a scowl that, peculiarly enough, mirrors Arthur's. "No, it was dumb."

"How so?"

Matthew smiles and jumps into the discussion, surprising everyone including himself. "He's angry because he lost to a girl at a thumb war."

"Ahh, I see," Arthur smirks, ruffling Alfred's hair. "Never underestimate an opponent, lad."

"But that means I lost to a GIRL," Alfred fumes, hoping for sympathy.

"And it won't be the last time you'll lose to a woman, I'm afraid," Arthur adds dryly. "It's high time for dinner. When that frog joins us, we'll be on our way."

"Arthur, why do you call Fran—Papa—a frog?" Matthew asks, genuinely curious in the way only children can be.

Arthur blinks, attaches Alfred to his trusty leash again, and says, "All Frenchmen are frogs. It's best to learn this sooner rather than later."

"Is that a bad thing? Being a frog, I mean."

"On occasion. Some frogs are more irritating than others," Arthur explains with an air of authority.

Matthew tilts his head in thought. "I don't think Papa is irritating."

"You haven't had the displeasure of knowing him long enough yet."

"But you guys are gonna catch the bad people, right?"

And for the longest second, Arthur feels the terrifically horrifying sense of realization that comes with knowing someone looks up to you. He isn't role-model material, and the boys would be much better off putting their faith in someone else, surely.

"Well, we're going to try," he finally responds, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. "But that's for me to worry about."

Dinner progresses in a similar fashion to how all of their meals have gone thus far. Arthur and Francis make admirable efforts at ignoring one another, Alfred tries to order something horrendously unhealthy and gets reprimanded, Matthew gets upset when he's told he can't have pancakes 24/7 and needs to pick something else on the children's menu, and they make it through without suffering any major emotional trauma.

Arthur has become acutely aware of the constant staring from passersby. Some people glance, others jeer, and some make it an active duty of theirs to pretend they don't notice them _because_ they're afraid of being caught staring. He's sure Francis knows of this phenomenon as well, but neither of them bring it up in conversation. It's uncomfortable to discuss, to say the least.

Although, really, what's there to be uncomfortable about? They're a family like any other. Well, posing to be a family, but still… As much as people claim to be all right with the prospect of same-sex couples, they don't practice the same attitudes—they still proceed to make a spectacle of things.

But it's not the first time Arthur has been subjected to being the center of ridicule and insults, so he doesn't waste too much time thinking about it. He does, however, lift his guard more than usual.

It's all he can do.

* * *

"I can go to sleep in the chair, if you want."

"Nonsense. There's a perfectly good bed here, and you're going to sleep in it, Alfred."

"B-But… I'll talk in my sleep and kick and—"

"Just close your eyes and stop fussing."

Alfred sighs and sinks under the covers. "I'm sorry."

"You'll be even sorrier if you don't hold your tongue and go to sleep like you're told," Arthur warns, but he suspects his attempts at being intimidating are losing their strength on the boy.

"Goodnight, Dad."

Arthur rolls his eyes. There's no need for him to be called "Dad" when they're not in public, but he allows it anyway. "Goodnight."

Alfred's out like a light before long, and once again, Arthur is stuck gazing stupidly at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to bless him. He has considered getting himself a long-term sleeping aid, but he's mistrustful of taking medication, unless he's on his death bed. He doesn't want to form a dependency.

Which means he has to come up with creative ways to keep his mind sharp without getting a full night of sleep. Memory games are helpful, and sometimes, on nights where being with his own thoughts is unbearable, he'll mentally recite prose or literature to himself. A few of Shakespeare's monologues are oftentimes enough to put him to sleep for a few, fitful hours.

 _Now I am alone.  
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.  
Is it not monstrous that this player here,  
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,  
Could force… Force his soul so to his o-own conceit._

This time, _Hamlet_ does the trick, and Arthur stills, breathing evening out. He doesn't notice he's fallen asleep until he's aware of waking. He forces his eyes open, and he doesn't know what time it is anymore, but it's dark and he's not any less tired.

It almost takes him a full minute to discover what exactly roused him, and then, he jerks out of bed and into a standing position on the carpet, disgusted as a frightened Alfred looks up at him with shining, blue eyes.

Alfred has wet the bed.

Arthur takes a breath to compose himself, and then, before the boy can protest, he yanks on Alfred's shoulder and steers him into the bathroom, nose scrunched at the smell. The boy begins to cry, and Arthur wants to yell at him for sobbing like an infant, but he knows that won't solve anything. So, he helps Alfred out of his pajamas and runs a bath, testing the temperature of the water before dunking the crying boy in it.

"Shh, stop that. You're all right."

Alfred coughs and splutters on his own mucus. "B-But only babies are supposed to wet the bed."

"I assure you that you're not the first boy of your age to have an accident. It's not the end of the world. Goodness gracious, Alfred, you cry at spilt milk. I don't know what to do with you," Arthur growls, but there's an underlying softness to his tone. "It's all right."

"You're not mad at me?"

"No."

Alfred runs a shaking hand under his eyes and sniffles loudly. "M-Mom used to yell at me… Told me not to drink water before bed, and I don't, but it still happens. And t-then, Dad would… He'd say that I would never grow up to be a man if I kept doing stuff like this. He'd tell me to wash the sheets, and I would try really hard, but he'd scream at me and—" he tries to continue, but his sobs get in the way of his speech. "It hasn't happened for a long time, I swear! I don't know why—"

"It's okay," Arthur says insistently, perturbed. "Let's get you clean, and then we'll figure out what to do next."

"I'm really sorry!"

"Hush with the apologies. It isn't your fault."

A quick scrub, and it's as though nothing ever happened. Alfred changes into a new set of pajamas, and as he's doing so, Arthur decides to take a quick shower as well, seeing as he didn't entirely avoid the mess. Unfortunately, there's nothing they can do about the sheets at this time of night.

Arthur gathers the dry blankets and the pillows before setting them up on the armchair on the opposite side of the room. It seems he'll be sleeping in it after all. He props himself up on a few pillows and gets as comfortable as he can, given the circumstances. He offers his side of the bed, which is dry, for the most part, to Alfred, but the boy hesitates before outright refusing.

Arthur gives him an exasperated glare. "Well, you don't have a choice."

"I'll sleep in the chair, and you can sleep in the bed."

"No, that's not an option."

And then, without even suggesting it first, Alfred climbs up onto Arthur's lap, and squeezes himself next to the man so that they're both reclined on the chair. The boy rests his head on the man's chest, and Arthur is so dumbstruck he can't manage to utter a single word of protest.

Alfred drifts right back to sleep, and by that point, Arthur doesn't have the heart to disturb him. He grabs an extra pillow, wedges it under the boy's head, pulls the blanket over them both, and lets him be.

He will never understand children.

* * *

In the morning, Arthur blearily sees a smiling, giggling Matthew, and then, the sound of French singing reaches his ears. A quick glance of his surroundings reveals that Alfred is still sleeping on top of him without a care, mouth hanging open a fraction of the way.

"Sleep well?" Francis asks him from the edge of the other bed, an obnoxious grin playing on the corners of his lips.

Arthur refuses to take the bait this time. Without really thinking, he places a hand on Alfred's head and tries desperately to quash the warm feeling of content in his gut. He looks so innocent and small like this.

Arthur thinks back to the events of the last night—how the child seemed convinced he was going to be physically reprimanded for wetting the bed—and wonders how anyone, parent or not, could want to bring harm to such a boy.

"Mathieu, _mon chou_ , your shoes are on the shelf in the closet."

Matthew, happy as a clam, mimics Francis's previous singing—the blasted frog has been brainwashing him with French—and thanks the man before jogging off to get his sneakers.

"We'll need to get the housekeeper to bring in new sheets," Arthur whispers, if only to remind himself.

"I'll contact someone," Francis assures. He doesn't have to ask to know what happened. The smell coming from the plastic bag in which Arthur had disposed of the ruined bedspread offers more than enough of an explanation. "Speaking of contacts, we have a problem."

Arthur scoffs. "Tell me something I don't know."

"The Vargas brothers know their room was bugged. They were bound to find out, of course, but I'd hoped we would have had more time. They don't seem to know it was us—not yet. In retaliation, I managed to hack into the server they're using and stole back the German chancellor's emails. I also deleted everything they had on NATO's proposed strategies for dealing with Russia's growing presence in Eastern and Central Europe."

"And there's no way they can trace it back to you?" Arthur asks.

"Oh, there is, but it'll take them some time. We need to plan our next move carefully."

"They can't be working alone. We have to find out who's buying this information from them."

Francis shakes his head, skeptical. "Maybe there isn't anyone else. It wouldn't be so hard to believe."

"No, they aren't clever enough to be on their own. That, or they're vastly inexperienced. If they were the sole masterminds, they wouldn't have made the amateur mistake of leaving their hotel room vulnerable," Arthur says with conviction. "There's someone above them. We just need to find out who."

"We've done enough. We retrieved the most important secrets they stole. We might as well call in law enforcement to—"

"It's too soon."

"Arthur, we don't have all the time in the world. The longer we take, the longer we leave dozens of officials and administrators at risk. If we don't catch the Vargas's while we have them cornered, soldiers, politicians, and innocent people caught in the crossfire will be killed. Just because I took the files from them doesn't mean they don't remember some of the names they had access to, and it could jeopardize everyone's safety, including ours," Francis argues.

Alfred stirs, and it's about time he did since it's already nine in the morning. Arthur quickly removes his hand from his head, forgetting it was even there in the first place.

"What's going on?" Alfred mumbles, rubbing a blue eye.

"Nothing that concerns you. Francis and I are merely discussing work. Get ready to leave for breakfast," Arthur says.

"Mmrghh… Okay."

The boy climbs off of Arthur's lap sluggishly and goes off to join Matthew in the bathroom, so they can compete to see who can finish brushing their teeth and combing their hair first.

When they're both out of earshot, and the water from the faucet begins running, Francis turns to Arthur again and adds, "Keep in mind we have two children with us, and we don't want to take any unnecessary chances while we're responsible for them."

"But we can't cut the mission short when we're—!"

"It's too dangerous, and you know it."

Arthur sighs, looks down at the pillow that's still on his chest from when Alfred was sharing the armchair with him, and says, "All right. We'll make arrangements to have the authorities take over, then."

"I know you want things to be ideal, but they can't be. Sometimes, we have to settle for second-best."

"For a moment there, and correct me if I'm wrong, it seemed as though you were being rational."

"I'm full of surprises. Didn't you know?" Francis teases. "The boys are growing on you. Don't think I can't tell."

"Yes, growing on my nerves," Arthur counters effortlessly. He's craving a cup of tea, and if Francis keeps drilling him with banter, he's going to need twice his usual serving. "I've fulfilled my minimum babysitting requirement for this mission. You can have the brats for the day."

Francis smiles. "There's nothing I'd enjoy more. Children are one of the only beautiful things left on this earth."

"I'd beg to differ, but to each their own."

Matthew wins the morning hygiene routine relay race and comes dashing out of the bathroom with Alfred in tow, itching for adventure.

"After breakfast, I'll take the boys for a walk around the area," Francis volunteers, and Arthur promptly approves.

Fortunately, for everyone's sake, breakfast is uneventful, and Arthur parts ways with the children, relinquishing them into Francis's care. He pats Matthew's head, does the same to Alfred, and then hands Alfred's leash to Francis with a firm warning to keep the boy in sight at all times.

"They will be fine. I won't let either of them drown," Francis adds bitingly.

Arthur, just barely, holds back a growl.

* * *

Francis is a good guy, Alfred supposes. He trots along the man's side, and when they are outside of the hotel's lobby and on the street where Arthur can't see them, Francis takes off his leash with a grin and says, "It'll be our secret, _oui_?"

Alfred can't complain now that he has his freedom back. He strolls ahead of Francis with Matthew, taking in a big breath of the warm, soothing Florida air. Francis takes them to a quaint souvenir shop not too far away, so they can by some knickknacks and other memorabilia.

After much debate, Matthew gets himself a boating hat with 'Orlando' written across the front, and Alfred gets the equivalent in t-shirt form. Of course, taking advantage of Francis's kindness, Alfred and Matthew both manipulate him into buying them some candy as well.

"For the trip home," Francis claims as he adds two chocolate bars, some sour worms, and lollipops to their shopping basket.

By noon, it's unbearably hot again, and Francis asks if anyone is in the mood for ice cream, a question to which the answer is obvious.

There's an outdoor frozen yogurt shop on the pier, and Francis lets them choose whatever flavors and toppings their hearts desire. Matthew digs right into his mango ice cream with strawberry slices on top, but Alfred pauses before he devours his double chocolate swirl, suddenly worried.

"Papa, when are we going home?" he asks.

"Within the next two days, _mon lapin_."

Alfred frowns, that means he's going back to the group foster home. The foster home with the other children who're mean and never let him play with them and call him names just because they want to. No more sharing a bed with Arthur, eating breakfast like a family, and tugging on Francis's arm to tell him stories. No more ice cream and souvenirs and waterpark vacations.

All this time, Arthur and Francis have been nice to him and Matthew, but for what? Just to make sure they cooperate until the mission is over and they can all go back to their regular lives? Alfred should've known better than to think they actually cared—that they would _miss_ him.

He stares at his ice cream, throws it down in frustration, and runs off into the flurry of the crowded pier, wishing he'd never been forced to go on this stupid trip with stupid people who make everything worse because that's all adults are good for—ruining things and then walking away from the debris.

He hears a panicked voice calling his name in the distance, but he doesn't turn around to look back. He could start his own life here in Orlando, where the weather is generally nice and everyone goes about their own way. He'd take Mattie with him, but Mattie wouldn't survive a life without adults, and he needs someone to take care of him. It's for his own good that he stays behind, as much as it would hurt Alfred to be separated from him.

First things first, he has to find a new place to live—a place to call his own. That's going to prove to be trying, but he has a couple of ideas and—

A giant hand comes swooping down like a vulture and slams against his mouth, stunning him. Soon after, another hand wraps around his waist and holds him too tightly. He cranes his head around and expects to see an irate Frenchman, but…

That's definitely not Francis.

* * *

"What do you mean he's gone?"

"I turned my back for a second, and it was crowded when he—"

"And why, pray tell, didn't he have his leash on?" Arthur snarls, practically blind with anger. A vein in his neck pulsates as he grabs Francis by the collar and shoves him into the wall of their hotel room. "He could be anywhere!"

"I can't change the past, and standing here yelling at one another isn't going to help find Alfred," Francis rasps, taken aback at how Arthur still has the power to scare him like this. "I called the local police department and explained the situation. They're out looking for him as we speak."

Arthur releases his crushing grip on Francis and scoffs. "It looks like I need to take matters into my own hands. We're going to turn this city upside down if we must."

He reaches for his cell phone, and just as he does, the phone in their hotel room rings instead, and Arthur, Francis, and even Matthew stare at it with bated breath for a second or two before Arthur finally has the courage to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"We have the boy. Give us what we need, and maybe you'll see him again."

Arthur swallows around the boulder in his throat, pales, and frantically motions for Francis to start tracing the call by using the landline's number identification. Whoever's speaking to him certainly doesn't sound Italian, and suddenly, this mission is much larger than just the Vargas brothers.

"What is it you want?" Arthur asks once he's sure Francis is following the necessary protocol. He does his best to make certain voice doesn't waver. He's been trained to handle this, and he's not about to let himself become hysterical.

"You're going to get NATO to withdraw the troops it has deployed to Poland."

"I'm not in a position to give you that," Arthur says, trying to draw out the conversation. "What the military does—"

"You have contacts. Refuse to do it and the boy dies. Then again, it wouldn't be much of a loss, would it? He's just one boy, isn't he? What's one life worth to an entire military effort?"

Arthur grits his teeth and brushes the words off. He can't be manipulated so easily. "I'll see what I can do."

He's not giving this bastard a damned thing.

"Excellent. I am very happy we understand one another. You don't have much time. If I were you, I'd start getting to work, _Dad_ ," the mysterious man taunts, pleased with himself.

The line goes dead, and Arthur slams the phone down, shaking. He sees Matthew huddled in a ball on one of the beds, frightened, while Francis is busily typing away at his laptop.

"Have you found the location yet?"

"Yes, it's an abandoned building twenty minutes away from here by car. But Arthur, they're not hiding—they want to be found. It's clearly a trap," Francis warns, confirming what Arthur already knows.

"It doesn't matter. One of us needs to go along with it. Let's make sure the area is secured."

 _He's just one boy._

Arthur shakes the thought out of his head and ignores the sickly feeling in his stomach. "We need to move quickly, and we don't have any room for mistakes."

"I know. You'll have to arrive alone. I'll get a car ready."

In the midst of all of this, Matthew begins to cry, and although Francis and Arthur are tempted to tell him everything will be all right, they're not in a position to make such a promise.

There's no room for mistakes.


	4. Chapter 4

**A** **uthor's Note** : Here's the last part for this request! Thanks again to the anon who suggested it! Enjoy!

* * *

"We'll have the perimeter surrounded, so all you have to do is get the boy out of there. We'll handle the rest," Francis instructs calmly over the phone.

"A tall order," Arthur mutters back, checking his mirrors as he drives to the location on the GPS. "How is Matthew doing?"

"He's upset, but he's in one piece."

Arthur allows himself a weary sigh and tries to still his pounding heart as he gets closer to the destination. He'll never be able to forgive himself if the boy is injured due to his shortcomings. He helped drag the child into this chaos, and now he's going to drag him out, no matter the cost.

He abandons the car on a side street a block away and ignores the buzzing in his earpiece of Francis talking to someone.

He's all alone now. The burden is solely his to bear.

He closes his eyes, remembers the sight of Alfred sleeping in his lap just this morning, and forces himself to be completely alert and on guard. When he opens his eyes again, he's already walking inside of the chillingly empty building, adrenaline soaring through his body.

He waits for something to happen, and a person steps out of the shadows. The dark head of hair is all Arthur needs to see to know he's dealing with Lovino Vargas. Standing next to him is a figure half his height with bloodshot, blue eyes.

"Alfred," Arthur croaks, fighting the urge to run up to him. He seems to be relatively unharmed for now, but his hands are tied behind his back, and there's a red mark on his cheek as though someone struck him.

"Arthur," Alfred sobs, wincing at the painful hold Lovino has on his upper arm. "Arthur, help!"

And that's when the gun dangling from Lovino's other arm catches Arthur's attention, and he knows he has to choose his words with extreme care.

"I've already contacted the American military base in Poland, and my associates are willing to negotiate if you let the boy go."

His earpiece has gone silent. Everyone must be listening anxiously on the other line.

"We're not negotiating. You have to do exactly what we tell you, or the kid dies!" Lovino screams back, and Arthur flinches.

"Arthur!" Alfred begs again.

"It's okay, lad. I'm right here," Arthur tries to console him from afar, not daring to move.

"How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?" Lovino screeches as he raises his gun and points it at Alfred's head.

Carefully, Arthur reaches for his own gun in the holster resting on his hip, but Lovino turns his attention back to him at once and catches him.

"Drop your weapon, or I'll shoot. _Dio_ , I swear I'll shoot."

Arthur takes the gun out and sets it on the ground directly in front of him, arms above his head. "I only wish to talk."

"Yeah, well, we don't have time to talk. Just shut up and get the right guys on the phone before—"

"Arthur!"

"SHUT UP!" Lovino screams again, and Alfred lets out a yelp when a hand connects with his cheek again. "Stop crying, or I'll kill you. Do you understand, idiot? I'll _kill_ you."

Alfred cries even harder, and the gun in Lovino's hand begins to shake violently as he presses the barrel firmly against the boy's temple.

"Please, he's just a child. You'll get everything you've requested," Arthur says steadily, even though he's sure something has irreparably erupted in his chest. "Release him. I have orders for the withdrawal of NATO forces with me, signed and approved."

"Hand it over, then," Lovino demands, jerking Alfred closer to him.

Arthur reaches for the folded piece of paper in his pocket and holds it out.

Lovino takes the paper and releases Alfred. The child immediately runs over to Arthur and buries his head in the man's chest, terrified.

Arthur quickly unties the rope binding Alfred's wrists together with practiced expertise and gathers him into his arms, flooded with relief. "Are you all right?" he asks, carding a hand through his hair.

Alfred's too shocked to speak, but Arthur supposes there will be time for such questions later.

"Go outside," Arthur whispers sharply into the boy's ear. "Now. Don't argue."

Alfred looks at him with watery eyes and says, "I won't leave you."

"Do as I say _this second_ ," Arthur hisses at him, heart beginning to race again. They don't have much time before—

"Who is Francis Williams?" Lovino interrupts, holding the paper up accusingly.

"Alfred, this is your final warning. Go," Arthur pleads with him in the sternest whisper he can muster. When the boy doesn't lift a foot, he turns back to Lovino and says, "He's the general overseeing—"

A new voice cuts in this time, the one from the phone call. "Enough with these games."

Arthur pulls Alfred behind him protectively.

A tall, formidable Russian man smiles darkly at them. "Ahh, we finally meet. I've heard wonderful stories about you, Arthur, if that's the name you now use. _Wonderful_ stories."

Arthur remains silent, one hand clutching Alfred's.

"You can call me Ivan. It's a nice name, isn't it? Very dependable and solid."

Ivan reveals a gun, but this time, it's pointed at Arthur. "I know many things about you. You'd be surprised, and you're not the type of person to be easily rattled, are you? Oh, I forgot you don't like small talk. I'm sorry. Let's get straight to the point, then. There isn't a general by the name of Francis Williams, is there?"

Arthur stands his ground but still doesn't comment.

"I don't like being lied to, my friend."

"He's not your friend!" Alfred suddenly shouts, and Arthur internally roars for the boy to keep quiet. The child's loud mouth has done nothing but get him in trouble throughout this entire trip.

Ivan's grin becomes wider. "What a nice, little boy you are. You're brave, that's for sure. Alfred, _da_? I think we'll get along well. I admire courage."

Alfred bites his lip and peeks his head out from behind Arthur, not sure what to think.

"Do you like Arthur, Alfred?"

Arthur's earpiece buzzes softly, and a voice that isn't Francis's whispers, "Hold still. Backup is on site and getting into position."

Ivan blinks expectantly at Alfred. "Well?"

"Yes, Arthur's my friend," Alfred finally replies, a tad squeakily.

"Hmm… It's good to have friends. Tell me something, Alfred. Would you like to learn how to fire a gun?"

Alfred shrinks back and shakes his head.

"Don't be shy. Come, and I'll show you."

Alfred shakes his head again.

"You're hurting my feelings, you know, and since you hurt my feelings, I just might have to hurt Arthur. You wouldn't like that, would you?"

More tears roll down Alfred's face as he shakes his head yet again.

"If you don't want him to be hurt, come and let me show you something."

Arthur tightens his grip on Alfred, and Ivan notices.

"Let him go, Arthur. We're all just trying to get to know one another."

To reinforce the threat, Lovino Vargas points his gun at Alfred again.

What the hell is taking everyone outside so long? And where is the other Vargas brother?

Hating himself, Arthur lets his hand fall away from Alfred. "Do as he says, lad."

Trembling, Alfred reluctantly crosses over to where Ivan is and stands beside him, comically tiny in comparison to the large man.

Ivan smiles once more, bends down to take hold of both of Alfred's hands, and wraps them around the gun. He clamps his own hands on top of the boy's, gun still aimed at Arthur. Alfred starts wailing as he realizes what's happening, and Ivan roughly forces the child's thumb onto the trigger.

Arthur wants to vomit. Ivan's going to make the boy shoot him. So, after all these years of training in stealth, handling torture, and self-defense, a seven-year-old boy is going to finish him off. How fitting.

His earpiece drones, "Don't move."

"No!" Alfred shrieks, and Arthur closes his eyes, bracing for impact as the sound of gunfire makes him jump.

…

He's alive. Why is he still alive?

A sniper gets Ivan in the shoulder, and Alfred is freed for the second time. Hell breaks loose as the doors come crashing down and dozens of men run in like a stampede. Arthur locates his gun on the ground and dives for it, but a bullet finds a home in his left thigh, and he bites out a groan, collapsing. The firing continues for another minute, and then, it's finally over.

" _Mon cher_. _Merde_ … Arthur, say something," Francis murmurs rapidly, crouched in front of him.

Arthur clenches his hands into fists against the pain and asks, "Where's Alfred?"

"He's okay," Francis insists, and he flourishes a hand toward someone in the distance before speaking again. "You'll get to see him in a little while. First, we need to get you to the hospital."

"D-Did we get them?"

" _Oui_ , everyone is in custody. We caught Feliciano Vargas lurking outside. He was running away. Apparently, he had a last minute change of heart and didn't want to be associated with his brother and Ivan anymore. He caused some commotion outside. Sorry for making you wait."

"I want to see Alfred now."

Francis makes an aggravated noise but manages to retrieve the still weeping boy. "I didn't want him to see you like this. You're only upsetting him more."

Alfred kneels down by Arthur's side and touches his jaw, and Arthur is made aware of the fact that he didn't shave this morning. "Are you okay? Please, be okay."

Arthur manages a faint smile. "It'll be fine. I've had worse."

The paramedics arrive, and they immobilize and loosely wrap Arthur's leg. Then, he's lifted up and onto a stretcher.

"Doesn't look bad," one of the paramedics promises, and Arthur vaguely feels the sting of a needle driving into his arm, followed by the warm rush of lovely painkillers.

"This'll probably knock him out," someone says, and Arthur can already feel his eyes drooping.

Alarmed by the sudden drowsiness, he groans, "Francis…"

"I'm here, _mon amie_."

"Don't go…"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Sleep tugs on his consciousness, and he swears someone kisses his forehead, but he's too dazed to know for sure.

* * *

The hospital—it's not the first time he's landed himself in this position

"Can I see it?" Alfred asks from somewhere ahead of him.

"No. Why would you want to see it anyway?" he hears Francis respond.

"Because it's cool!"

"I worry about you sometimes. This fascination of yours isn't normal."

"Is the bullet still in there?"

"No."

"Do they have it in a jar somewhere like in the movies?"

"Don't trust everything you learn from films… Arthur? I think the medication is finally wearing off."

Arthur groans as he pries his heavy eyelids apart. His head hurts, which is strange because he doesn't remember hitting it.

Francis swims into his field of view and gives him a concerned frown. "How are you feeling?"

He rolls his tongue around his parched mouth a few times and says through chapped lips, "Remarkably awful."

"The doctor said you might feel uncomfortable for a few hours as the painkillers stop working. You'll get a weaker dose later today," Francis explains, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "It could have been much worse. The bullet didn't reach the bone—you were lucky. Your leg's going to be sore for a number of weeks, and the bandages need to be changed three times a day, but otherwise, everything should be fine."

Arthur rubs his head and mumbles a few words under his breath to show he understands. To his left, Matthew is sitting in a chair, attention away from the cartoons on television as he peers at him. Hesitantly, the boy smiles at Arthur and places something on his lap.

Curious, Arthur picks it up, and damn it all, he can't handle this drama and cluster of emotions. He's becoming soft.

The item in his lap is a "get-well-soon" card. Bless Matthew's heart.

"Thank you. That's very kind of you, poppet."

Matthew blushes and looks away, hugging his stuffed polar bear. "You're welcome."

The touching moment is ruined when Alfred brings attention to himself. "So, can I see it, Arthur?" the other twin asks excitedly, leaning over the end of the hospital bed.

Arthur scrunches his face as a strong wave of pain runs through his head. "See what?"

"How your leg looks," Alfred clarifies. "It's probably pretty gross, huh?"

Francis rolls his eyes and wags a finger at the child. "I told you 'no,' Alfred. Stop pestering Arthur. He has enough to think about."

"It's all right," Arthur assures with a chuckle before beckoning for Alfred to come closer. He lifts an arm to smooth the bangs away from boy's eyes and says, "It's good to see you're safe. You had everyone worried."

"Even you?" Alfred asks cheekily. "I thought you weren't scared of anything."

"Yes, even me. We all have our fears," Arthur admits. "And don't think I've forgotten about how foolish you were for wandering away from Francis. You put yourself in great danger."

"I'm sorry."

"What would've happened had Francis and I not come looking for you? This could have ended in tragedy."

Alfred slumps his shoulders, ashamed.

"Francis and I are responsible for you and your brother, and we expect you to listen to us when we tell you to do something. You know you're not allowed to go off on your own. What if we hadn't reached you in time?"

The severity of his actions seems to resonate with Alfred, and guilty tears pour over his cheeks. "You got hurt because of me."

Arthur clicks his tongue and relents with the lecturing, deciding to hug the boy instead. "It's all right now. I can handle a wounded leg."

"Francis said you were going to be okay, but I wasn't sure because that's what everyone says when things go wrong and I—"

"Shh."

"—don't wanna go back to how things were because I want to stay with you and Francis, and Mattie says he doesn't want to leave either—"

"Take a deep breath, lad."

"—and no one's ever been nice to us like you and Francis. We love you guys."

Arthur stiffens, and Francis laughs.

This is not how this mission was supposed to go.

"I'm sure this is all a little overwhelming for Arthur, boys. Let's get a snack and let him rest for a moment, hmm?" Francis recommends, rubbing Alfred's back to calm him. "He's only just woken up."

Alfred breaks the hug, leaving a stunned Arthur to gawk at him.

"Boys, I'll meet you in the hallway in a minute," Francis says, urging the boys out of the room. When they're out the door, he turns back to Arthur and smiles gently. "How are we going to let them go?"

Arthur sighs. "I've no idea."

"How's the pain?"

"Manageable."

"I'm glad you're all right."

"Well, I couldn't just die. Who would be there to keep your ego in check?" Arthur jokes darkly.

And before he can second guess himself, Francis bends down and kisses him. He's nervous, and so, he pulls away quickly, but as he rises to leave, Arthur throws a hand forward and snatches him by the cuff of his shirt, yanking him back.

"Have you lost your bloody mind?" Arthur asks once they're face-to-face again.

"Yes."

And Arthur kisses him back.

* * *

Standing there in a lively airport with children running back and forth as they take advantage of the final days of summer, Arthur does something he rarely gives himself permission to do—he thinks about his future.

With a career like his, it isn't wise to keep pondering about the next step. His existence is rooted in uncertainty. For all he knows, he could be dead tomorrow. It's best to take everything one day at a time. He must live in the present lest he loses his mind to the future.

But while Francis plays a guessing game with the twins as they all walk (well, actually, Arthur hobbles behind them on a pair of crutches) to their gate, Arthur worries he'll never be able to settle down. He might never find security and stability.

He looks at the boys joyfully skip ahead of him and frowns. This is it. Tomorrow, they'll all be back home, and he'll be out of commission for a few weeks until his leg is at full strength again. Then, another mission will find its way to his desk, and he'll be shipped somewhere else, with or without a partner.

"Hold on a second," Francis suddenly says to the boys. "Let's give Arthur a chance to catch up."

"I can keep up just fine, frog," Arthur growls. He quickens his pace, and as he does, someone's wild child knocks into one of his crutches, and he loses his balance.

He expects to fall to the ground and injure himself even further, but thankfully, Francis steadies him with an "I-told-you-so" smirk.

The mother of the child apologizes profusely, and Arthur gruffly assures her that no harm has been done.

"We're not in a rush," Francis tells Arthur chidingly, and he's using the same tone he uses to discipline the boys. "Take as much time as you need, _mon cher_."

"Must you call me that?"

"Don't you like it?" Francis teases, sneaking a peck to Arthur's cheek. "Come on. Have some fun."

"This isn't going to work, Francis."

"Can't we at least give it a try?"

Arthur adjusts his crutches and stands without Francis's help. "I'm not ready…"

"And when will you ever be ready? You're always waiting for the perfect time, but it's not going to come."

The boys are staring at them, and Arthur sighs.

"Give it a chance. Two weeks. If after two weeks you still hate me, we won't push it, okay?" Francis compromises.

They're both horrible at relationships. Arthur's long forgotten how to function like a normal human being, and Francis is overly optimistic about everything without understanding the implications.

"Okay," Arthur agrees. "Two weeks."

* * *

Saying goodbye is harder than any of them expect it to be.

"No!" Alfred howls, making the most heart-shattering sound Arthur's ever heard as he tries to get the boy to walk up to the door of his foster house. "Don't go!"

Matthew's not faring much better. Francis is holding him in his arms, whispering sweetly to him about how he has to be a good boy and be strong. It's no use though, both of the boys are absolutely hysterical, and no matter how hard they try to pull the children off of them and lead them to where they belong, they scream and continue throwing fits that leave both men feeling terrible.

"We'll come and visit," Arthur promises, but Alfred isn't listening. He's juggling both his crutches and the boy in his grasp, wishing it didn't have to come to this. "It won't be so bad. Look, Alfred, you have all of your friends here. They'll miss you if you don't go and join them."

"I don't have any friends here. All they do is push me around," Alfred sobs, drooling into Arthur's shirt. "Why can't I stay with you?"

"Because this is your home."

"But I don't like my home."

"Lad, you need to stay here."

Alfred becomes more of an inconsolable ball of tears and whimpers, unable to be persuaded.

"Alfred, do you know what a nomad is?"

"No."

"A nomad is a person who moves from place to place and never stays in one location for too long. Francis and I are like nomads. We can't stay, which is why you need to go back home," Arthur tries to help him understand.

"Can't I come with you?"

"I'm afraid not. I can't give you what you need, lad. This," Arthur stops to gesture to the foster home, "is where you need to be. You have people who can take care of you here."

"But you can take care of me."

"No, I can't."

Arthur tries to get Alfred to let go of him for the hundredth time. Again, he fails. "Stop this nonsense. Go inside, Alfred. I'm not going to debate this with you."

"Why do you want to leave me?"

Arthur frowns deeply. He doesn't _want_ to leave, but he _must_.

Finally, Alfred uncurls his fingers and removes them from his shirt, crestfallen. "Fine. Go, then!"

"Can't we have a proper and civil goodbye?" Arthur asks, but Alfred has already turned away and is marching up to the door, not even bothering to look back.

Something constricts in Arthur's chest, but he decides this is the way it has to be. It doesn't matter if Alfred's upset—this is what's best for him.

Seeing his brother surrender, Matthew begins to give up the fight as well. He holds onto Francis as he says, " _Adieu_ , Papa," and then, he lets his arms fall away. He walks over and exchanges a brief hug with Arthur. This time, he simply says, "Bye."

Arthur pats the little one's shoulder and forces a smile. "Goodbye, poppet. Take good care of your brother for me, all right? Keep him out of trouble."

And then, Matthew, too, walks away.

Arthur exchanges a solemn look with Francis as they make their way back to their car in silence.

Their job is done.

* * *

They fall into a routine, and to Arthur's grand surprise, being in a relationship with Francis comes easily. It's as though they've been dating for an eternity.

Needless to say, they last longer than two weeks.

Within the month, they make arrangements to move in together, which is more convenient for both of them. It's convenient for Francis because he doesn't have to keep driving back and forth to see Arthur, and it's convenient for Arthur because his leg is still giving him trouble, and, with Francis nearby, daily tasks become less arduous.

Things quiet down. Arthur's on sick leave until further notice, and Francis gets called in sporadically for small assignments, but he's mostly home as well. It seems like everything will remain stagnant, until Francis throws them a curveball one night.

"I'm retiring from the agency."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can't do it anymore. I'd rather do some police work. I can't keep living this unpredictable life," Francis declares, adamant. "I'm done."

"And you made this decision just now?" Arthur asks, bewildered.

"No, I've been considering it for a while. Ever since we left the boys last month… They deserve a better life than what they have now, Arthur."

"I hope you're not suggesting what I think you are."

"Let's take them in."

"Francis—"

"You know you can't stand to think of them at that horrible home."

"I don't think you realize what a responsibility this would be."

"Maybe I don't, but what do we have to lose?"

Arthur doesn't say anything for a few minutes, but then, out of nowhere, he grumbles, "You lazy sod. You think you can retire and leave me with the duty of doing all of the hard work? If you're retiring, so am I."

"Really?"

"Do I have to explain it to you in French?"

"I'd love to see you try."

"Well, I'm not giving you that luxury."

Francis grins and wraps his arms around Arthur's waist. "Thank you."

* * *

"Boys, you have some visitors."

Arthur and Francis come strolling into the living room, and the twins look at them warily, unsure of what to expect.

"What are you doing here?" Alfred asks, sounding sour and hurt.

"We're here to take you both home, obviously," Arthur replies mildly.

The boys stare at them, perplexed. Alfred breaks out of the stupor first and goes rocketing into Arthur's chest, enthralled. Matthew does the same to Francis seconds later.

"Are we a real family this time?" Matthew asks shyly, and both men laugh.

" _Oui_ , _cher_. We are going to be a real family."

"Promise?" Alfred says into Arthur's shoulder, his beloved blue dinosaur nestled under one arm.

Arthur nods. "We promise."

"We're going home, we're going home, we're going home!" Alfred sings gleefully.

Hand-in-hand they step outside, a family like any other.

* * *

 _End :)_


End file.
